


pure; pure-hearted

by AllegoriesInMediasRes



Series: ASoIaF / Game of Thrones fics [8]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Codes & Ciphers, Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, Motherhood, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Panchakanya Meme, Sisterhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:40:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28728270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/pseuds/AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: A series of drabbles about Catelyn Tully Stark for the Panchakanya meme.Title is the meaning of the name "Catelyn".
Relationships: Arya Stark & Catelyn Tully Stark, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Catelyn Tully Stark & Edmure Tully, Lysa Tully Arryn & Catelyn Tully Stark
Series: ASoIaF / Game of Thrones fics [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586470
Kudos: 8





	pure; pure-hearted

**Ahalya**

an important first for them || _deception_ || disguise || something they waited for || kill two birds with one stone

The Tully sisters’ secret language is, in actuality, a combination of ciphers rather than an entirely new tongue. Neither Cat nor Lysa have the ingenuity to craft and remember a new language, but still they desire a means of encrypting their communication. So with all the seriousness of young girls, together they conspire over the course of many sunlit afternoons what concoction of ciphers would be best. The first round involves a [substitution cipher](http://practicalcryptography.com/ciphers/simple-substitution-cipher/), where each letter is replaced by a randomly selected one. The second round is a [date shift cipher](https://www.sciencelearningspace2.com/math/documents/math-date-shift-cipher.pdf), where they take what would have been the date of their mother’s thirtieth nameday and turn it into a shift key of six digits. Not even the king’s best spymasters could crack their code, they are sure.

Lysa, never as quick of mind as Catelyn, takes longer to master their secret language, but master it she does, and henceforth their communication is forever theirs and theirs alone. 

**Draupadi**

one grudge they held || _favorite hairstyle_ || baptism of fire || five finger discount || one big change that they wrought

Her Riverrun roots call for the looping, elaborate updos of the South; her status as Lady of Winterfell recommends to her simpler Northern braids. Ned would have her auburn mane open and unbound, so that he might run his fingers through it, childish though it might be. For her part, Cat favors the upper portion of her hair twined back into a simple small plait, to keep it out of her face, while the rest of her tresses are free for Ned to adore. 

**Sita**

friends are the family we choose for ourselves || green thumb || captive audience || _no good deed goes unpunished_ || true blue

“ _Please_ , now, Edmure, stop weeping, oh, please, just stop…”

Edmure’s first nameday is a little more than a moon’s turn away, and already the boy knows himself motherless and knows Catelyn a poor substitute for Minisa Tully. Cat does not blame him. She agrees. She cradles him and rocks him, but she cannot seem to conjure her mother’s magic, the indefinable _something_ that made Minisa larger than life in Cat’s eyes, even when she was bleeding out on the birthing bed, that quality that made her able to soothe away even the worst of childhood’s miseries.

Something hot and heavy builds up in Catelyn, behind her eyes and between her ribs and underneath her tongue. She takes a deep breath and begins again. “Hush, little Ed, the sun has set, and night has fallen…”

**Tara**

one prediction they made || communal cup || one injury/wound/illness they healed or cured || on the tail end || _keen acumen_

Arya and the boy are close. 

Catelyn has spent so long worrying about Ned’s bastard usurping Robb, that it almost blindsides her to realize she’s been worrying about the wrong child. The boy is a long time away from being old enough to steal Robb’s birthright, but in the meantime he’s stolen other things: Arya’s laughter and Arya’s time, Arya’s confidence and Arya’s esteem.

Logically, Catelyn should be more concerned about her eldest son, but it’s this usurping of her youngest daughter that nettles at her in another way, different than the memories of Blackfyre.

The boys are Ned’s responsibility to rear and sculpt and raise, but Sansa and Arya fall under her sphere. It would not be so hard to guide Arya away from her half-brother. A pointed guilt-inducing comment to Arya, asking why she favors her bastard brother over her trueborn sister; a complaint to Ned that his bastard is interfering in her teaching of the girls; a simple edict that Arya can no longer associate with him. Ned would not protest; it’s Robb he wants being close to the boy, not necessarily Arya.

She never does. She says nothing, and continues to watch as her only Stark-looking child edges closer and closer to Ned’s only Stark-looking son. She watches Arya’s eyes, wide and adoring for Jon Snow as they never are for her mother, and never thinks to extinguish that light. 

**Mandodari**

frog in boiling water || mother lode || hospitality in a time of war || one time they intervened || _labor of love_

“If you do not come down,” Catelyn says mildly, “then I shall climb up after you.”

Bran peers down at her from his perch on the rock wall, some twenty feet in the air, down at his mother, the stately Lady of Winterfell. “You _wouldn’t!_ ” he calls back down. 

Catelyn spent her girlhood climbing up trees on the riverbank, more agile than Lysa or Petyr. She is twenty years out of practice, but Cat Tully of the Trident still lives underneath the skin of Lady Stark.

“You should not have dared me,” is all she says before she rucks up her skirts, tying them into a knot at her waist, and finding herself a foothold amongst the rocks. 


End file.
